The Two Confessions by John Whitbourn (good books to read for adults .TXT) 📕

might make, and ifFather Omar didn't always approve of the grotesques constructed before his veryeyes he was powerless against such a weight of tradition and indebtedness.

Itwas partly as a result of this, and chance, and - as with so many matters inhis world, a certain Tudor King - that Samuel received his mission.

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Theidea was to get your figurine to the main procession's start without any othersociety catching sight. That way its impact was maximised by novelty. Therewere few things more gratifying to a true 'son-of-bonfire' than to hear gaspsof acclamation, outrage and surprise greet the revealing of your labour oflove. Since each grouping had the same task before it, the same urge to speedand discretion of delivery, it wasn't all that hard to achieve success.Everyone was too intent on their own project to much hinder or thwartanother's. On the other hand, in honour of the day, a token amount of pryingand mischief making was expected, as were exertions to evade it. By lateafternoon the Town was swarming with conspiratorial parties. That was howMaster Trevan came to the forefront and his fateful moment.

Leweswas strung through with short cuts, called 'twittens' in local dialect,just as other places called them 'gates' or 'passages'. Survivalsof the medieval street pattern, they'd once been run-offs between tenements,stretching down to the defensive walls. Now hallowed by time and formalisedinto pedestrian ways, cold-shouldered by and walled off from neighbouringhouses, they ran for long distances, offering a discreet means between many an Aand B.

'ChurchTwitten', with its high flint walls and overhanging trees, was perfect, albeita tight squeeze, for Cliffe Bonfire's purpose. It stretched right from theriver and priory up to the High Street. With partisans to guard either end, theeffigies, all shrouded in tarpaulin, could be dragged along to commence a briefpublic life in relative privacy. This was the Society's favoured route, eventhough it entailed first pontooning the figures over the Ouse, and they'd haveused it every year save that such lawyer-caution wasn't in the spirit of thefeast.

TheOrphanage was always entrusted (and honoured) with pulling one of thecreations, and that year, 1988, it chanced to be the principal parody and maineffort. By virtue of his size and spirit, Samuel was chosen captain of theselected boys. He ordered awaiting the chimes of five and serious dusk beforesallying out. The cold nipped at faces and fingers but at least it was dry:perfect Bonfire weather.

Soonhe and his team merged into the protective midst of the swarming, excited,Cliffe contingent; a multitude all too willing to offer assistance shouldyouthful muscles flag. Then, with such an abundance of helping hands to haulthe precious charge, Trevan felt free to press ahead, to scout the route andsecure the twitten's further reaches against surprise. Two-score Cliffe rascalswere with him, in ribbon-enlivened Sunday-best and war-painted faces. Eachbrandished the traditional 'Black Betty's fan' (illegal on any otherday): a stout hardwood club decorated with that dead queen's screaming facelapped by hellfire. As fully intended, they looked a desperate crew, merelyhalf-feral at this decorous stage of proceedings, yet hungry to commune withthe wilder-still heart of 'Bonfire'. Samuel felt fitted; part of the group andin his place. It wasn't in his mind to leave or change, and the years aheadseemed set to roll on pretty straightforward.

Heshouldn't have presumed.

Twothirds along, Church Twitten took a right turn. Strolling around that cornercame his future.

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‘Oh....’

‘Nopassage here, miss,’ said Samuel. ‘Cliffe's coming through.’

‘I'llgo back.’

‘'Ain'toffering much choice, am I?’

‘No,not really.’

Shewas his age but educated: well spoken - very well spoken - though light on thehaughtiness that usually rode tandem. Outside of the licence of Bonfire daySamuel might not have spoken so briskly to her. Then one of hisbonfire-brothers felt free to push the boundaries even further.

‘Aboutturn and show us y'rear view, dolly-dumpling, 'fore we tread you in!’

Samuelhad learnt the knack of shutting people up with just a look. He used it on hiscoarse friend.

‘Walkwith me,’ he told the girl, who had blushed most arousingly. Issuing ordersagainst the current of the class structure was presumption in itself, but thereand then Trevan could pose as her protector and thus be excused. They drewclear of the slow oncoming mob.

Trevanescorted her back whence she came, to the junction with High Street. Theexpected gawpers were waiting and his companions got distracted in dispersing themwith waves of the betty-fans. There was an opportunity for unpressureddiscourse. He wondered why he felt so tense.

‘You'llhave to wait till we pass. Where were you going?’

‘Out.’

Andso Samuel learnt she wasn't so soft or flustered as she looked. Nor did shefeel obliged to elaborate. Samuel was... unsettled by his strong wish to learnmore. There was a queasy feeling of ebbing control.

‘Areyou in charge?’

Herquestion was a killer, perfectly exploiting his sudden self-doubt. Could shedetect it? Or was the girl simply up to turning the tide of interrogation?

Shehad to elevate her head to address Samuel eye to eye. That contact was fleetingbut long enough for him to note the flash of cobalt blue under long lashes. Hefelt eight foot tall and clumsy with it.

Samuellooked down into the pale face and, quite unlike him, wanted to say the mostimpressive instead of truthful answer.

‘Sortof.... Well, not really. Just of that one.’

Hepointed behind. By application of brute force and ignorance, the star effigywas negotiating the twitten's corner. Beneath the covers the rough shape rockedand wobbled alarmingly.

‘Isit any good?’ the girl asked.

Thatwas almost saucy, though he couldn't detect any mockery in her modestly evasivegaze. If Cliffe didn't think it was ‘good’ they'd not have entered it! Therewas a prize that went to the finest creation, and a full year of honour andboasting besides. Up to that moment Samuel would have said their 'Henry-Abomination-Tudor,VIII-and-last' was 'good'. He'd even been caused to grin at it as themonstrosity took shape. Certainly it was the best, a walk-away winner, andlocal patriotism would have had him say so even if it wasn't.

Strangelythough, just then, he'd rather the girl wasn't about when it was unveiled, toassociate it with him. Samuel knew how King Henry's codpiece swelledobscenely up to meet a drooping gut. The titanic arse they'd grafted on himwould raise laughs - but